I. Juvenile Poems. Ode written for the Commemoration at Fryeburg, Maine, of Lovewell’s Fight

Air—Bruce’s Address.

I

MANY a day and wasted year

Bright has left its footsteps here,

Since was broke the warrior’s spear,

And our fathers bled.

Still the tall trees, arching, shake

Where the fleet deer by the lake,

As he dash’d through birch and brake.

From the hunter fled.

In these ancient woods so bright,

That are full of life and light,

Many a dark, mysterious rite

The stern warriors kept.

But their altars are bereft,

Fall’n to earth, and strewn and cleft,

And a holier faith is left

Where their fathers slept.

III

From their ancient sepulchres,

Where amid the giant firs,

Moaning loud, the high wind stirs,

Have the red men gone.

Tow’rd the setting sun that makes

Bright our western hills and lakes,

Faint and few, the remnant takes

Its sad journey on.

Where the Indian hamlet stood,

In the interminable wood,

Battle broke the solitude,

And the war-cry rose;

Sudden came the straggling shot

Where the sun looked on the spot

That the trace of war would blot

Ere the day’s faint close.

Low the smoke of battle hung;

Heavy down the lake it swung,

Till the death wail loud was sung

When the night shades fell;

And the green pine, waving dark,

Held within its shattered bark

Many a lasting scathe and mark,

That a tale could tell.

And the story of that day

Shall not pass from earth away,

Nor the blighting of decay

Waste our liberty;

But within the river’s sweep

Long in peace our vale shall sleep

And free hearts the record keep

Of this jubilee.

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